Asham'd to flaunt his ancient wreath of vines.
How kind is Fate, whose mild decrees prolong
The work of virtue and the boon of song;
Who lends our day, of finer sense devoid,
The stately singer earlier days enjoy'd!
Elysium, rich in poets of the past,
Can well afford to leave on earth the last;
So thou, lov'd Hoag, whom generations crown
With choicest laurels of deserv'd renown,
Must long from thy calm Vista Buena shine,
And teach us all a sweetness like to thine:
May'st thou, who bless'd the num'rous years before,
Delight our souls for eighty-seven more!
H. P. Lovecraft.
How kind is Fate, whose mild decrees prolong
The work of virtue and the boon of song;
Who lends our day, of finer sense devoid,
The stately singer earlier days enjoy'd!
Elysium, rich in poets of the past,
Can well afford to leave on earth the last;
So thou, lov'd Hoag, whom generations crown
With choicest laurels of deserv'd renown,
Must long from thy calm Vista Buena shine,
And teach us all a sweetness like to thine:
May'st thou, who bless'd the num'rous years before,
Delight our souls for eighty-seven more!
H. P. Lovecraft.
To Jonathan Hoag, Esq.
On His 88th Birthday, February 10, 1919
Once more auspicious Time, in annual round,
Shows a skill'd bard, with added laurels crown'd;
Whilst eager throngs, well-pleas'd with lenient Fate,
Acclaim harmonious HOAG, turn'd eighty-eight!
What may we say, as we with joy behold
One who can flourish, never growing old;
Whose moving strains our list'ning grandsires knew,
Yet who can charm ourselves with art as true?
What may we write of his Parnassian Jays
Beyond our censure, and above our praise?
Life is a mountain, reaching to the sky,
With peak for ever hid, supremely high;
Its slipp'ry slopes each mortal seeks to scale—
Seeks but to pause, to falter, and to fail.
Who can predict the fame of him whose feet
Mount ever up, nor waver in retreat?
Thus climbs our Greenwich singer o'er the rest,
Attains the purer air, draws nigh the crest;
How wide and beauteous must his vision find
Life's spreading landscape, when he looks behind!
Well may his quill, in that exalted place,
At once the world's and heaven's beauties trace;
In retrospection tell of stream and grove,
Yet with like art describe the scenes above.
So sounds the lyre that sweeter grows with age;
So gleam the lines on Hoag's Pierian page;
Life, Death and Immortality he sings,
Yet glads our fancy with terrestrial things.
How bright his picture of the simple school,
Where rustic masters held benignant rule,
Or of the snowclad slope, where light and free
The red-cheek'd coasters glide in youthful glee!
With magic notes his songs enchant our ears,
Revive the happy past, and melt the years.
May lesser bards compete with one whose Muse
Each year superior splendor can diffuse?
Who is so bold, that he can hope to gain
Shows a skill'd bard, with added laurels crown'd;
Whilst eager throngs, well-pleas'd with lenient Fate,
Acclaim harmonious HOAG, turn'd eighty-eight!
What may we say, as we with joy behold
One who can flourish, never growing old;
Whose moving strains our list'ning grandsires knew,
Yet who can charm ourselves with art as true?
What may we write of his Parnassian Jays
Beyond our censure, and above our praise?
Life is a mountain, reaching to the sky,
With peak for ever hid, supremely high;
Its slipp'ry slopes each mortal seeks to scale—
Seeks but to pause, to falter, and to fail.
Who can predict the fame of him whose feet
Mount ever up, nor waver in retreat?
Thus climbs our Greenwich singer o'er the rest,
Attains the purer air, draws nigh the crest;
How wide and beauteous must his vision find
Life's spreading landscape, when he looks behind!
Well may his quill, in that exalted place,
At once the world's and heaven's beauties trace;
In retrospection tell of stream and grove,
Yet with like art describe the scenes above.
So sounds the lyre that sweeter grows with age;
So gleam the lines on Hoag's Pierian page;
Life, Death and Immortality he sings,
Yet glads our fancy with terrestrial things.
How bright his picture of the simple school,
Where rustic masters held benignant rule,
Or of the snowclad slope, where light and free
The red-cheek'd coasters glide in youthful glee!
With magic notes his songs enchant our ears,
Revive the happy past, and melt the years.
May lesser bards compete with one whose Muse
Each year superior splendor can diffuse?
Who is so bold, that he can hope to gain
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